Wide Open Spaces. Roz Fox Denny

out. Which fortunately the Quinn family did a lot. His dad followed big-money rodeos, and his mom played jazz piano in night clubs. For tip money, she said. Colt wasn’t very old before he guessed the real reason. If a dinner crowd was especially receptive to her tunes, the establishment threw in a meal for the family. Not only did the food beat rodeo hot dogs as a steady diet, but the various club dining rooms’ meals were far superior to those prepared and eaten in the cramped quarters of the cab-over camper in which the three Quinns lived.

      That was probably why Colt identified, just a little, with Summer Marsh’s son. A boy whose once-stable world had to be in turmoil. Lord, as an adult Colt knew how it felt to have a well-ordered life thrown into disarray; it’d be doubly hard on a kid.

      Mrs. Marsh hadn’t seen him yet. Colt had no idea if she’d recognize him even if they bumped squarely into each other.

      An older waitress, not Megan, greeted Summer’s party, grabbing a pair of menus and offering them a table. Colt strained to hear what was being said. “Summer, hi! Sorry to keep you waiting. There’s a wheat-growers meeting going on in the back room. You and Rory attending it tonight?”

      Summer slid a steadying hand onto the shoulder of her fidgety son. “I probably should, Helen, especially if they’re discussing winter feed prices. I hadn’t intended to go, though. I wasn’t sure how late the hearing would run. I arrived home from Burns to discover that Rory’s teacher had requested an after-school visit. We’ve just come from there. Since I’ve spent virtually my entire day on the road, I decided we might as well eat in town before heading home.”

      “How did the hearing go?” Helen asked as she directed them to the booth right behind Colt.

      “Oh, fine, I guess,” Summer murmured absently. “Larkin Crosley is representing me, bless his heart. If the judge hadn’t been pro-ranch and anti-development, who knows how I’d have fared. Even now, the best that can be said is the court gave me a reprieve.”

      “Oh? How so?”

      “I’ve got six months to come up with money to buy Frank out.”

      “Isn’t that good?”

      Summer looked dejected. “There’s always a catch, Helen. The buyout’s based on an inflated price set by Ed Adams and his land-rustlers. He’s willing to pay a little over seven and a half million dollars. To keep the Forked Lightning, I’d have to pay Frank 3.8 million,” she said, her voice cracking at the end.

      “That’s awful,” Helen commiserated. “What on earth are you going to do?”

      Summer didn’t answer. She’d drawn abreast of Colt’s booth, and obviously recognized him, because she stopped abruptly. “Mr., ah…Quinn, isn’t it?” She extended a hand, then stumbled back as Colt rose politely, which crowded her. “That’s correct. And you’re Summer Marsh?”

      Colt knew her name perfectly well, but he’d been thrown off guard when she spoke, as he’d been eavesdropping on her conversation with Helen. What he’d overheard concerning the results of the hearing interested him a great deal.

      Summer met Colt’s unwavering gaze and felt heat stinging her neck and cheeks—which she found surprising. She’d dealt with men in a man’s world almost all her life. Men twice as tough and imposing as the one standing before her now, taking in every tiny detail from her head to her toes…

      “You two know each other?” Helen exclaimed, glancing from one to the other. “Well, isn’t that nice. I hate seeing anyone eat alone.” Without fanfare, the older waitress plunked Summer’s two menus on the table opposite Colt’s coffee mug.

      “I’m Rory,” the boy piped up. “Look, Mama. The man has a hat just like mine.” Rory scrambled to the inside of the booth and laid down his smaller version of Colt’s Stetson. “Are you gonna cowboy for us, Mr. Quinn? All our wranglers, ’cept me’n my dad, wear dorky straw hats. Daddy says ranch owners wear felt ones.”

      “Rory! Come here. Excuse us, Mr. Quinn. Helen, there’s been a misunderstanding. I met Mr. Quinn for the first time this morning. I wouldn’t dream of horning in on his privacy.”

      “It’s Coltrane, or Colt,” he cut in swiftly. “Please, do join me. Helen’s absolutely right. Eating alone holds little appeal.” The words had scarcely left his lips when Colt groaned inwardly, wondering what on earth had made his tongue run away with him? The notebook he’d shoved beneath his hat sat inches away from Summer Marsh’s precocious son. A pad filled with notations on her ex-husband, and even a few on her.

      Trying not to appear as panicky as he felt, Colt grabbed the binder and hat, and wedged them into the empty space on his bench seat. “There,” he said, almost too exuberantly, “now you have room to spread out.”

      Summer stood there, still looking doubtful, even though Rory bounced up and down on the opposite seat, all the while informing Helen he’d like fried chicken and a glass of milk.

      “Do you want the special, Summer?” Helen dug out her order pad. “Pot roast, loaded with carrots and browned potatoes. Elvin outdid himself tonight.”

      Capitulating with a sigh, Summer gingerly sank into the booth across from the man who’d invaded her thoughts at inopportune times since their chance meeting. “The special sounds great, Helen. And bring me a carafe of coffee. Strong and black,” she added. “It’s been quite a day.”

      Colt let her finish ordering before he turned to Helen. “Megan took my order already. Would you see if you can delay its arrival to match theirs, please? And a carafe of coffee sounds good to me, too.”

      “We aim to please.” Helen tittered, patting her hair in place before scurrying off to the kitchen. Summer realized Helen might have twenty years or more on her, but she was no less bowled over by Coltrane Quinn’s charms.

      Folding her hands on the table, Summer decided not to be impressed, at least until she learned more about the man. After all, she’d been duped by Frank’s seeming charm.

      Sensing she’d erected a wall, Colt concentrated on Rory Marsh. “Have you seen the eagle your mother rescued this morning?”

      “Yep. Virgil was putting her in one of our big cages when I went out to tell Mama something.” The boy fiddled with the ribbon trim on his hat band, a guilty expression invading his light brown eyes. “Virgil and Mama were gonna bring the eagle babies out of the gorge this afternoon. But Miss Robbins, my teacher, needed to talk with Mama and me, so the babies gotta stay in their nest alone tonight.”

      “They’ll be fine for one night, Rory,” Summer hastened to interject. “Virgil’s too old to be climbing cliffs, anyway. I’ll go fetch them after you leave for school.”

      “Virgil said it’ll take two people.”

      “Then I’ll free up one of our wranglers.”

      Observing the tense byplay between mother and son, Colt wondered how many men the Forked Lightning employed. It’d take quite a few, he imagined, to run such a large spread. Frank, holding forth over at White’s Bar, gave the impression that he alone had run the ranch. While Colt had always had his doubts, until this minute he’d had no proof Frank Marsh was telling whoppers.

      “I’ll bet Dad could climb up to that nest in no time and get those baby eagles. After we eat, can we go ask him?” The boy’s face was alight with hope, despite his quivering jaw.

      Summer gazed at her son’s upturned face, her own growing several shades paler. “Rory, your father didn’t… He wouldn’t… I can’t…”

      Colt watched Summer Marsh struggle to find the right words. He also noticed how hard she rubbed the thumb and forefinger of her right hand around and around the third finger of her left hand. As if used to twisting a ring—her wedding ring, probably. Now the finger was bare. A faint white band stood out from her small, tanned hand.

      “Rory, honey. I’ve tried to explain that your dad is no longer involved with the ranch. You have to stop asking